The Starfish

It is that dreaded time again, when I cannot do very much. I made myself a cup of tea eight hours ago, but did not have the energy to drink it. I fell asleep with a dog on my head instead. That probably says it all.

I knew this was coming and I very much looking forward to waking up from it in three days time, just in time for Santa Claus. I have now been through this four times, and it may sound strange, but I am somewhat relieved to think that the next time I do go through this, I’ll be in hospital. Albeit with things leaking from each orifice as well, but I’ll be surrounded by more drugs. The fatigue is indescribable. I have tried, but I strongly suspect people think I am embellishing. I am not. Right now, I look like the ghost of Christmas Past mixed with Miss Haversham with breasts down to her naval.

Must remember that for each day or couple of hours down, I am that little bit closer to Christmas.

It dawned on me earlier today, how close I am to my high dose and how close I am to having this level of fatigue again, if not worse, and that the next time I do feel this way, it is going to be more dangerous. I am going to have to sort out the breast support issue by that point for it is not just going to be another cycle at Mamma Jones’ house and I do not know if people understand.

I am dwelling.

It’s my friends’ fault. Rather nicely one was arranging a dinner party earlier today for February. Everybody responded excitedly; I did not. I cannot make plans for February, before then I have to make a decision about whether I have a procedure with a 10-20% mortality rate, shave off my hair and try to tone down my irrational vat of self pity that people are forgetting just how seismic this all is….

It’s all going to be okay though. Do you know how I know it is going to be okay? Last night, for the first time since I was diagnosed, I used the whole bed. I did a starfish. On my back not front, but still. Baby steps.